Stepbrother Backstage (The Hawthorne Brothers Book 3) (39 page)

And right now, those eyes are trained on me—looking like a
proper hot mess.

“Sorry I’m late,” I breathe, transfixed by Luke’s steady
gaze.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies coolly, giving me a
searing once-over, “I hear that Jazzercise classes tend to run over now and
then.”

Stifled laughter rings out through the lecture hall as I
glance down at my dance attire. No choice but to own it, I guess. Tossing my
messy braid over one shoulder, I straighten my spine and shoot Luke an easy
smile.

“Yeah, well. It’s a lifestyle,” I say, walking confidently
to the last empty chair in the room and sinking down with a satisfied smile.

But Luke takes no notice of my slick response. He’s already
turned away from me and resumed his lesson, as if I’d never appeared in the
first place. I let the smile fade from my lips as he goes on. I have to admit,
I’m disappointed in his disinterest. Since he first showed up a weeks ago, I’ve
been doing everything in my power to catch his eye. But no matter what I do, I
can’t seem to snag his interest. I’m not saying that I’m man bait or anything,
but I’ve found that guys are typically responsive when I give them an opening.
Not Luke Hawthorne, though. He’s barely spared me a passing glance.

Oh well. At least that gives me more time to stare
unabashedly at him.

From what I’ve been able to glean from campus gossip, Luke
is back at Sheridan completing his MBA after attending undergrad here a few
years ago. He’s not an official employee of the school, he just stepped in to
teach this class as a personal favor to an old professor. He’s a Montana
native, a beast on the track, and apparently brilliant.

And naturally, he’s a
total
womanizer.

Every other week, he can be seen around campus with a new
main squeeze. I swear, there must be a waiting list or something—he turns
ladies over like clockwork. But to be perfectly honest, it doesn’t bother me
one bit that he’s an expiration-dater. I’ve always preferred short, sexy flings
to long, dull relationships myself. Especially since my dad passed away, the
last thing I want is to be with a guy who insists on getting all emotionally
invested from the get go. Give me a passionate tryst over commitment any day.

So consumed am I by thoughts of Luke Hawthorne’s romantic
preferences that the lecture flies by. In no time at all, the students around
me are gathering their things and chatting about their plans for the weekend.
This place is going to be nuts starting tonight, it being the last day of the
year and all. Keg stands, streaking, and drunken frat bros will be the name of
the game around here. For my part, I’d just as soon skip it. My body is only
21, but I think my soul is somewhere in its mid-30’s and completely over its
binge-drinking college days, thanks.

“Sophia,” I hear that familiar, rich baritone say from the
front of the room. I turn to see Luke Hawthorne waving me down toward him as
the class disperses. “Would you stay behind for a minute? There’s something I
want to discuss with you.”

My stomach does its best washing machine impression as I
freeze in my tracks. What could Luke Hawthorne possibly have to discuss with
me? My imagination runs wild as my classmates file out around me, stealing
curious glances as I make my way toward Luke. Does he want to discuss the seven
digits of my phone number? Or where we should meet up for a drink later? Or how
he’d like to see me bent over his desk while he—

“What’s up?” I ask him, straining to make my voice sound
even remotely casual.

He leaves me hanging until the lecture hall door has closed
behind the last student. Finally, it’s just us. I can feel my pulse quickening
with every second we’re alone. I’ve been fantasizing about this for weeks, but
I’d given up hope of it ever happening for real. But now that this smart, sexy,
unattainable man is standing just a couple of feet away from me, I’d say things
are getting very real, very fast.

“I was hoping to catch you alone before you left for the
summer,” Luke tells me, crossing his thick, muscular arms. The sleeves of his
tasteful button-down are rolled up to above his elbows, and tighten around his
sculpted biceps. I have to prompt myself to respond.

“Oh. Uh. Why is that?” I ask him, looping my thumbs through
the straps of my backpack, “Am I in trouble or something?”

“Not yet,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting into a
knowing smile.

Holycrapholycrapholycrap,
I think excitedly to
myself,
Is he seriously about to go all dirty professor on me? How did I get
to be so lucky? Should I have brought an apple or something?

“But you might be, if you don’t course correct. And soon,”
he goes on perplexingly.

My brow furrows as I look up at him from my measly height of
five six.

“Sorry, I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Prof,” I
laugh lightly.

“I’m talking about the effort you put into this class, Ms.
Porter,” he says bluntly, “Or rather, the lack of it.”

My half smile fades away as I realize this meeting is going
to be a lot less sexy than I’d hoped.

“With all due respect,” I say, drawing myself up under his
condescending gaze, “Econ. 101 wasn’t exactly my priority this semester. I
didn’t have a lot of effort to spare.”

“Yeah, that was pretty clear,” he shoots back, cocking an
eyebrow at me. “You barely turned in any of your assignments, you were late
more often than not, and I’m not convinced you’ve to listened to a word I've
said these past few weeks.”

That’s because I was too busy checking out that fine ass
of yours,
I think, face reddening with embarrassment. I don’t mind being
called out on failing at something I care about deeply. But being scolded for
not putting effort into something totally irrelevant to me really grates.

“Look. Luke. Can I call you Luke?” I ask, cutting the
bullshit.

“By all means,” he replies, looking amused.

“I honestly couldn’t give less of a shit about this class,”
I tell him, “I’m just here to fulfill my graduation requirements. I’m a
performer. That’s what matters to me. That’s what I spend my every waking hour
trying to get better at.”

“I understand being passionate about your hobbies,” Luke
cuts in, “But it’s important to—”

“Performing isn’t a hobby,” I snap, “It’s what I plan to do
for the rest of my life.”

“That’s what I used to think about sports, too,” Luke
replies condescendingly.

“Well, that’s a totally different story. No one really gets
to be a professional athlete,” I say, crossing my arms.

“No one really gets to be a professional actor either,” he
shoots back, “It doesn’t sound that different to me, Sophie.”

I stare up at Luke, my jaw clenched tightly. In about three
minutes, this man has shattered my esteem of him into a thousand pieces. I
should have known that someone like him would turn out to be a total asshole.
No one man could be as gorgeous and brilliant as he is and still be a good
person. That must be a law of physics or something.

“I’m sure you’re not used to hearing this, Luke,” I say, all
joking aside, “But you have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“There’s no need to get upset,” he tells me, “I thought you
could use a bit of honesty from someone at this school. It’s a shame to see
someone as bright as you waste her potential.”

“Let me guess. You think I should abandon my dreams, sell
out, and become an upstanding citizen like you?” I shoot back with a laugh.
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

“We’ll see,” he shrugs.

“Yes. We will,” I say resolutely, turning on my heel, “Enjoy
the rat race, Prof.”

I storm out of the lecture hall, leaving Luke Hawthorne
behind in the dust. My hands are shaking with indignation. This guy doesn’t
know the first thing about what I do. What could a MBA-toting jock know about
art, or expression, or inspiration? I can’t tell if I’m more outraged by his
assumptions or disappointed that he’s just another macho asshole. As an
assertive woman, I’m used to men trying to tear me down to make themselves feel
more important. It was ridiculous of me to imagine that this guy would be any
different.

As I burst back into the warm afternoon, I swallow a huge
gulp of fresh air and do my best to calm down. This guy’s opinion of me doesn’t
matter. I’ll never see him again in my life. I should just shake off his
criticism and look forward to a summer full of classes that won’t include a
single money-minded asshole.

But for some reason, Luke’s words cling to me like a wool
sweater in this summer heat. It wasn’t just criticism he had for me, after all,
but praise. He thinks I’m bright. He thinks I have potential…
and
he
thinks I’m wasting it. Well, add him to the list of people I’ll be proving
wrong once I carve out the life I want for myself, no matter what it takes. God
knows, there are already enough names on that list…what’s one more?

Chapter Two

I’ll say this for Luke Hawthorne: he certainly motivates me to
bring my a-game to the final day of performances for the year. My fellow drama
students and I spend the day presenting our final scenes, songs, and movement
pieces for each other and our professors. Danny and I are scheduled to perform
our dance piece at the very end of the day, and I can barely contain my
excitement. When we get out on that stage again, it’s like we’re entirely
different performers than we were the day before. Our bodies are entirely
attuned, our every movement energized with a determination I haven’t felt since
first arriving at school. We leave everything on the stage, losing ourselves in
our last performance of the year. And our hard work doesn’t go unnoticed this
time.

“Good goddamn,” Gary gasps, wrapping us up in a bear hug as
applause rains down from our peers and teachers, “I don’t know what the hell
happened to you two overnight, but I suggest you nail it down and keep it
forever!”

I can’t help but laugh at the idea of keeping Luke Hawthorne
nailed down forever. If such a thing is even possible, I’ll happily leave the
task to some other poor sap, thank you very much.

Elated by our job well done, Danny and I walk on air as we
leave the performing arts building at dusk. We walk across campus with our arms
thrown around each other, taking in the gorgeous night. I notice more than a
few women—and men—stealing glances at Danny as we make our way past. I can’t
blame them for starting. My friend is Hollywood-handsome and stylish as hell.
But even though we have great chemistry as performers, Danny and I have never
once hooked up here at Sheridan. He’s bisexual, and I’m pretty sure every
single one of our fellow drama students harbors a crush on him. But our
friendship has always outranked any sexual tension that might crop up between
us—and I’m glad, too. I’m not very good at keeping my romantic interests around
for more than a couple of weeks, and Danny is someone I want to have in my life
for many years to come.

“So, what do you think for tonight?” he asks me now, his arm
thrown over my shoulders, “Every single frat is throwing some kind of party.
Would you prefer togas or a tiki party? I’m pretty sure both will manage to be
offensive, but—”

“Ugh. I don’t want to ruin this day with a crappy frat
party,” I groan, “You hate those things as much as I do. Why bother?”

“Do you have a better idea?” Danny asks, “We could go watch
shitty Disney movies with the drama freshmen, if that’s more your speed.”

“Why don’t we go somewhere off campus?” I suggest.

“Off campus?” Danny gasps theatrically, “What a novel idea!”

“I
know
. But believe it or not, there’s an entire
world outside of Sheridan,” I reply, “Why don’t we explore it a bit?”

“Do you know a place?” he asks.

“Not really,” I shrug, “But I’m sure we can find something.
Come on. Be a grownup with me!”

“All right, fine,” Danny sighs, “But if we accidentally end
up in a serial killer’s basement or a furry convention or something, it’s on
you.”

“I can live with that,” I assure him, “Nothing could be
worse than another undergrad party.”

Danny and I part ways to go change for our big night out,
each of us heading off to our own dorm rooms. If our school had co-ed dorms,
we’d definitely be roommates by now. But I guess that’ll have to wait until
we’re living the dream in New York City together. And by “dream” I mean sharing
a tiny shoebox apartment, working four restaurant jobs each, and maybe getting
to audition for something once a month, of course.

My actual roommate, a very quiet bio major named Kim,
doesn’t seem to be home—which means I get to blast my music as I get ready for
tonight. I plop down in front of my laptop and put on some MGMT, singing along
as I give my social media pages and email a cursory once-over. Just as I’m
about to close my laptop and get dressed, a new message pops up in my inbox.
It’s from an address I’ve never seen before, and the subject line simply reads:
“Re: Our Conversation”. I click on the email absentmindedly and begin to read…

Hey Sophie,

I wanted to follow up with
you after our conversation yesterday afternoon. It wasn’t my intention to
discourage you. I do think that you’re a very promising student, but I also
feel that it’s my responsibility as your teacher to hold you to the standard of
excellence, I’m sure you can meet if you put your mind to it. I know that your heart
is set on performing at this point in your life, but I urge you to keep an open
mind. Based on the assignments that you actually turned in for my class, and
your contributions to our classroom discussions (however rare they may have
been), I can tell you have a sharp, entrepreneurial intellect. Don’t let it go
to waste.

Best,

Lukas Hawthorne

I sit back in my desk chair, fuming as I stare at Luke’s
message. How can one person be so simultaneously aggravating
and
encouraging?
So condescending while voicing a vote of confidence? One thing is for sure. I
don’t have the time to parse Luke’s intentions for writing this little note
before happy hour is over. Instead of replying to my esteemed professor, I
forward his note to Danny, including a few thoughts of my own:

Can you believe this
prick?  I may have spent every one of his lectures fantasizing about him
nailing me to the wall and fucking me dirty, but this is too much. Someone
needs to finally leave Sheridan and get his ass handed to him in the real world
before doling out life advice, am I right?

Satisfied with my retort, I crank the music up even louder
and get down to business. It isn’t often I get excited about going out around here,
but I have a feeling tonight’s going to be one for the books. And I, for one,
intend to look awesome for it.

***

“Here it is,” I breathe, grabbing Danny’s arm as our cab
rolls to a stop.

“Are you kidding me?” he says flatly, squinting through the
car window.

“What? So it’s a little edgier than the places we usually
go…”

“A butter knife is edgy,” Danny hisses, “This place looks
fucking dangerous.”

Our cab is idling in front of a long, low building, with a
rough-hewn wooden exterior and corrugated tin roof. A sign above the door
proudly proclaims that the establishment is called The Bear Trap. A quick
internet search of nearby dive bars led Danny and I to its door, though one of
us seems far more enthusiastic about this little plan now that we’re here.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I assure Danny, handing the cab
driver his money and stepping out onto the curb.

“Maybe for you,” he mopes, standing beside me as the car
pulls away. “You’re a smoking hot babe. I get the feeling that this place may
not be as hospitable to pretty boys like myself.”

“Then you’ll just have to stick with me, won’t you?” I
smile, lacing my fingers encouragingly though Danny’s.

His outfit for tonight does skew a little more glam than
usual, though mine is more in the grungy direction. While Danny rocks his black
skinny jeans, I’ve chosen a vibrant red miniskirt and white crop top for
tonight’s festivities. My caramel blonde hair hangs long and tousled down my
bare back, and I’ve got my best pair of black stilettos on to boot. I’ve spent
of my time at drama school wearing nothing but leggings and tee shirts, so any
excuse to dress up a little is one I’ll gladly take.

“We can stay for a couple rounds, max,” Danny relents,
turning toward The Bear Trap, “But then it’s back to our safe little Sheridan
bubble, OK?”

“How the hell are you going to survive New York if you can’t
even handle a little Montana dive bar for one night?” I laugh.

“Are you kidding? I’ll be among my people in New York,”
Danny replies, “It’s the good old country boys that worry me.”

“Relax,” I tell him, heading for the door, “Everything’s
gonna be just fine.”

A wall of sound slams into us as I wrench open The Bear
Trap’s door. For a moment, I’m almost too stunned to take another step. The bar
is full of rowdy locals, clustered around scuffed tables and along the long
wooden bar. Hard country rock blares over the sound system, and the crowd is a
sea of denim and leather. The men sport baseball caps and bulging muscles, the
women rock tight jeans and bottle blonde hair. Danny rolls his eyes as he
surveys the patrons.

“Well, at least there’s enough leather for my taste,” he
remarks flatly.

“A bar’s a bar, right?” I yell back over the rollicking
music, “Let’s make like the locals and pound a few back.”

“I’m gonna need more than a few to get over this music,”
Danny replies, making for the bar.

“What? You don’t like country?” I grin.

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” he
glares back at me.

We sidle up to the bar, squeezing between the sardined
bodies of regular customers. I catch the bartender’s eye first and call out our
order for two gin and tonics. The bartender looks at me a little skeptically—I
get the feeling this is more of a PBR and whiskey joint—but furnishes us with
our first round all the same. With my cold cocktail in hand, I finally feel
like I can relax and get a feel for this place. Two barstools open up, and I
settle into one beside Danny. Sipping my drink, I turn to give The Bear Trap
(and its male patrons) a little once over.

My eyes sweep over most of the guys here without pause.
Trucker hats and bad mustaches are both deal breakers for me, alas. But as I
lean around Danny to check out the other end of the bar, my gaze comes to a
screeching halt as it alights on a very familiar face. A face I’d never expect
to see in a place like this. The sculpted, arresting face of one, Luke
Hawthorne.

“What the hell?!” I breathe, hiding behind Danny at once.

“What? What’s the matter?” my friend asks, baffled by my
behavior.

“Don’t look,” I caution him, “But that guy down at the end
of the bar, with the short brown hair and the sexy stubble? That’s Luke.”

“Who?”

“Professor Sexy Pants,” I hiss.

“What?! Oh my god, where?!” Danny crows, whipping around in
his seat.

“Danny! I told you not to look!” I breathe, grabbing hold of
my friend’s arm.

“Goddamn, Sophie. You weren’t kidding,” Danny whistles,
“That is one fine specimen of a man, right there.”

Despite my better judgment, I peer around Danny to get a
second look. Luke is standing along the far side of the bar, leaning up against
the rough wooden surface. But even though I’d recognize that sharp jaw and
those dark green eyes anywhere, I almost can’t believe that this is the same
man who’s been lecturing me about the economy for the past couple of months.

Gone are the professional slacks and button downs I’ve grown
accustomed to seeing him in. Gone are the nice shoes, the laptop, the stacks of
graded papers. Tonight, Luke’s barely recognizable in a dark gray tee shirt and
dark wash jeans, cut perfectly to his chiseled chest and sculpted ass. His
chestnut brown hair is just the right kind of tousled, and even the stubble on
his jaw seems darker than it was yesterday. But it isn’t just his clothes that
have changed since our run-in after class. His entire demeanor is different.
He’s dropped the upright school hero act entirely. His stance is easy and
confident, his body relaxed and supple. Every one of his perfect muscles seems
rested and ready for action…of
any
variety. This assured everyman is
even more appealing to me than the high and mighty golden boy I’ve always known
Luke to be. Just when I thought he couldn’t get any more intriguing…

“Are you gonna go talk to him?” Danny asks excitedly.

“No way. Absolutely not,” I say, trying to sound firmer in
my convictions that I feel.

“And why the hell not?” Danny presses, “Are you still mad
about that little after school chat? He probably just wanted you to stick
around so he could check out your tits in that black spandex.”

“The chat was one thing,” I say, “But that little note he
followed up with? That was too much.”

“What note was that?” Danny asks, cocking his head.

“The email,” I clarify, “I sent it to you.”

“No you didn’t,” Danny replies.

“Sure I did. Right after I read it. Luke sent over some
little ditty about how I should consider other career paths so I don’t squander
my potential,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“This is news to me,” Danny says, “Are you sure you sent it
to the right address?”

“Of course,” I tell him, “It’s not my fault you only check
your email once a week, you Luddite.”

“I’m an artist,” Danny shrugs, “I’m allowed to be a Luddite.
But
you
are not allowed to leave here without talking to Professor Sexy
Pants.”

“I already told you, I’m not interested,” I say, lying
through my teeth.

“But fate has brought you together!” Danny whines, wrapping
his arms around my waist, “On what other occasion would we find ourselves in a
shit hole like this?” He pauses to mouth “I’m sorry” to the scowling bartender
before going on, “It’s totally meant to be, my dear.”

“I assure you, Luke wouldn’t agree,” I tell my friend,
prying his arms from around me, “Now for the love of god, would you please drop
it?”

Danny’s eyes gleam with mischief as he turns away from me in
a huff. Relieved, I lift my glass and take a big swig of my gin and tonic. But
before I can swallow properly, Danny’s cupped his hands around his mouth and
screamed across the bar—

“Hey-a, Luke!”

I promptly choke on my mouthful of gin as Danny hops off his
stool, clearing Luke’s sightline and scampering off into the crowd. I feel
Luke’s eyes before I see them, raking hotly along my bare skin. Struggling to
compose myself, I lift my gaze and look warily across the bar…but there’s no
one looking back. Luke’s disappeared from his spot. Is he avoiding me
completely now? I guess I can’t blame him for not wanted to see a student at
the bar, but—